Please God, let me die
George woke up for real for the first time in centuries. It felt like centuries, however, he had no idea how much time had really passed. The past was a maelstrom of flashbacks and half-memories. Pain and flesh and blood and fire. Always fire, always pain.
There was no fire now but there was pain. Breathing hurt, thinking hurt, being alive hurt.
George cracked his eyes open but he didn't dare to move anything else. He was lying face down on a dirty floor, bare walls and a blind window with a symbol painted on it.
George had no idea where he was but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was alone. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was alone. Outside and more important inside his body, his mind, George was alone. He smiled and tasted his own blood on his lips.
Yeah, breathing hurt. Maybe his crashed rips. Or his broken spine, he wasn't sure what but it didn't matter anyway. His legs were maybe broken too, he couldn't feel them, though, for what he was grateful.
George coughed some more blood and had not enough air to scream out the agony riding through his body. Which probably was good because he didn't want to get Its attention. It was gone for now but It would be back. It had said so and that was the one thing George had believed. That and the promise of more pain. There was always more pain. For It lying was like breathing but the "I'll be right back." had been the truth because it hurt way more than any lie could.
George was dying, he knew that and he welcomed it, however, he wasn't dying quick enough. If It came back before George was dead, everything would be like before. Like it had always been. A long time ago there had been a before before. Maybe George had dreamed that because now he couldn't even imagine anything before before. He just would go back to the pain and the flesh and the blood and the fire. That was everything he knew now, everything It knew.
The horrible things It did, the things It enjoyed, the things It did for fun. He hadn't been awake for all of it, thank god, but for more than enough. More than enough to know that he better should be dead when It came back.
George lifted his head from the dusty floor to take a look around. There had to be something to help him. To help him kill himself.
He thought about smashing his head to the floor but doubted that the first blow would kill him and he wouldn't be able to lift his head up again after that, he knew.
Something shifted in his chest and a sharp pain shot through his body. He almost blacked out but he fought it. If he lost consciousness now he wouldn't wake up again before It would have come back. So he fought. Fought air into his burning lungs, nearly choked on his own blood but stayed awake.
After a few seconds, or had it been minutes, his vision cleared to almost not blurry.
There, just ahead of him, lay something in the dirt. Something metal, something with maybe a sharp edge. Or at least a not too blunt edge. Maybe. If he just could reach it.
He bit back a scream when he moved his arm. The metal lay there, an inch or two too far away, mocking him. George grit his teeth and stretched his fingers farther. Nearly brushed the piece of metal.
Move, he pushed himself. His legs were useless but he had two arms, more or less. Just a little bit.
Bones ground in his chest but he heaved his body an inch forward. Fingertips on metal and with one more push his fingers closed around the piece. George grinned.
Please God, he thought, let me die.
Quick now. Before It came back.
For a second George thought about how to kill himself quick and for sure.
Laying on his stomach he propped himself up on his elbows. Something in his spine snapped but he ignored the blinding pain. Tears in his eyes he breathed for a second against the nausea, tasting bile and blood in his throat.
With both hands he fisted one end of the metal piece, grounding it, while the sharper end stood up, scratching his lips. He opened his mouth and prayed that combined with gravity he had the strength to impale himself on the metal. To drive it deep enough into his throat and spine to kill himself.
I'm free, was the last thought in his mind before he smashed his head down on the metal.
It was back. Along with the sharp piece It forced Its way into his body. Thick and oily went It down his throat and into his mind. George screamed.
Georgy-boy, what were you doing?, It asked in his head and George could only scream into the darkness of his own mind.
Spitting out the dirty piece of metal It stood up and dusted off Its clothes. With a handkerchief It wiped the blood from Its lips and after that tucked it neatly away. It sighed and then straightened.
And then Crowley left the room to face those damn Winchesters again. He'd been so close to get that tablet and the bloody prophet.